You remembered it only because your body ached. The concussive force of the blast had sent you flying, and the fear of that memory was seared into your mind.

Everything else was gone.

You couldn't remember your name, or why you were somewhere that had put you in such danger. You were aware you were in a recovery room of sorts, but it didn't feel like a hospital, and the uneasy shifting sensation left you assuming you were on a boat.

You hated water, especially the ocean, you were certain of that. Old memories floated hazily through your mind. It hurt to focus on them, but the fringes of those long term memories were clear enough to know you avoided your island's piers and beaches.

Faces floated in and out of your mind as you stared at the ceiling. You could smell the bracing scent of disinfectant, a sweet scent of some sort of salve or lotion, and the itchy tingle of bandages and what were probably a couple casts. You could wiggle your fingers and toes, but everything simply ached.

You weren't sure if your hazy memory was because you were in too much pain to be bothered to remember, or if it was all simply gone. A cost for having survived the blast that still rattled your soul against your bones.

You heard the door open, and turned a little, to see an impressively tall man with neon pink hair enter into the room.

"Ah, you're awake. Don't move," he insists, putting his hands up after setting down the crate he'd brought in. "You took a hell of a beating and House says you gotta rest. Cap'n's orders too." He adds.

His demeanor and his voice are kind, and casual. Friendly. Your head throbs and you think you should know him, but no name is coming to mind. There's a soft pang of guilt, but you didn't consciously decide to forget so much.

"Tha-ungh." You try to say thank you, but the act of speaking hurts and you wince instead.

"You're welcome." He replies swiftly. "Don't try an' talk. You hurt yourself more an' Cap'n'll kick my ass down the deck. I'm just bringing in these supplies for House, I'll let her know yer up, and see if Killer can make you some broth at least. You've been sleeping for a couple'a days."

Captain.

Something in that single word makes your chest tighten. The burning sting of tears swells up in your heart and you cried. Silently and easily, surprising yourself a little. A large finger wipes them away and the big guy in the room with you smiles down at you kindly.

"It'll be alright (Y/N)." He assures you.

Your brows knit and he stops, tilting his head a little and looking at you. There's a moment of silence and you slowly, and carefully, manage to get four small words out.

"Is... that my name?"

You can feel the large man beside you flinch, and he pales so fast you're worried he's going to pass out and collapse by your bed. He nods slowly.

"Yeah. It is." He answers, lips and words tight. He's trying not to sound as worried as he is, a strained kind smile doing it's best to bring color back into his face. "I... I have to go get the doc, so - so jus' stay here. You're banged up pretty bad, so please don't move."

He nearly bolts out of the room and you lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering who you were a few days ago. What thoughts did you think three days ago, before something happened and changed it all. Did you smile easily? What sorrows gnawed at the edges of your laugh? What joys filled it out?

How could you know words, and a disdain for the sea, and not know your name? Or the name of someone who obviously cared for you enough to react like that man had?

You mumbled the name the pink-haired man had said, letting it sit and roll on your tongue. It felt new and familiar, strange and fitting. A heavy sound because you'd forgotten it, pulling the edges of your lips down as tears slipped quietly down your face.

A commotion pulls you from your heavy thoughts. You can't make out words, but there's a cacophony of loud voices drifting into the room. One rising over the rest. You can't hear the words, but the tone cuts into the meat of your heart.

Pain.

Far more than any anger or rage, there's just pain in the voice, rough like gravel, warm like -

- red? -

Blood. Warm and harsh, desperate and fading. Slowly fading as the other voices around the booming pain bring it down.

The door opens slowly, and a woman, much smaller than the bubble-gum pink-haired man from earlier, steps inside. Her clothing is eclectic, and she comes over to your bedside with a tight look on her face.

"Mosh says that talking is difficult for you, but can you tell me how you feel physically right now?" She asks.

You nod carefully. "Aches, but," you lick dry lips and swallow. "I haven't moved."

The tight expression softens a little and she gives you a bit of a smile. "Wiggle some for me, make sure your toes and fingers move, let me know if anything hurts sharply. The ache and bruising is gonna persist for a couple of weeks."

You do as instructed, wincing a little at jolts and tingles here and there, but nothing hurt enough to make you cry out or swear.

"... Who?" You prompt and watch the small lady flinch just as much as Mosh.

"House," she answers. "My name's House, kiddo, and I'm the doctor on this ship."

"Ship." You grunt the word, and House puts a hand over her face.

"Yeah, it took a while for you to adjust. Not a fan of the ocean, but... you managed before, I'm sure you will again." She takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. "Memory loss is sticky business. I can't sit here and say it'll come back in a couple days or weeks. It might not ever."

House pulls a stool over and sits down beside your bed. She's worn and rough, tanned and probably younger than she looks, hair a little bedraggled, and you can see the weight on her shoulders.

Weight that is likely due to you.

"You've been a part of this crew for almost two years now. So I have a ship full of people who are concerned about your memory loss. Especially one very loud, very proud, Captain." House gives you a moment and her expression softens, her smile gets warmer. "You are under no obligation to try to be who you were, no matter what anyone else wants, but all of us will answer any questions you have, and we'll do whatever we can for you."

You nod a little.

"For now though, we need to get some food in you, and some water too." House pats your hand softly. "I'm going to limit your visitors for another week, but you'll only need to stay in here for today I think. You're healing up neatly, and I'm not worried about infections or anything." She stops, looking at you and making sure she has your attention.

"But don't go thinking the crew's avoiding you, they're just going to give you space for a few more days, okay?"

You nod again, moving again to give her a little thumbs up.

When House left, Mosh came back in with some broth. He told you Killer made it, but House wanted to limit new faces and names for a bit, and give you a chance to adjust. You ate, drank what was provided, got some medication from the doctor, and slept a little more.

House checked you over after your second meal of broth, and gave you some hard tack to nibble on. She changed your bandages with help from someone named Hip, who was a younger looking woman with short blonde hair.

Hip talked a lot, just about the ship itself, and House would cut her off if she started losing you. Afterward she just repeated what she already said, trying to help it feel more familiar.

Breakfast the next day was more than broth, but not by much. Dry toast and some juice, and afterward House and Hip escorted you to the bathroom and helped you get cleaned up. House was pleased with your wounds, and once you dried off they put far less bandages on before helping you get dressed.

Hip escorted you through the ship, showing you were the mess hall was, and how to get to the main deck. She put names to faces as the two of you walked, assuring you there wouldn't be a test or anything and not to stress.

The crew was a little smaller than you expected, at least numerically. With just a couple exceptions everyone was much taller than you were.

A couple of days later you were on regular food, and regular meals with the rest of the crew. You knew most all of them by name now, and people were slowly sharing stories with you about what you'd been up to for the last few years of your life - so far as they knew it.

You weren't scared. It was comfortable, but also frustrating. None of your memories were old. They were all just from the last few days.

At least one person was avoiding you. The captain. You'd seen him once, and he barely even glanced at you before storming off. Something ached when you saw him. A pain so deep you would've bled to relieve it.

A week later you stood at the back of the ship, hours after dinner, watching the moon and the waves. Every glimpse you caught of him made your heart ache so deeply that guilt ate at you for hours afterward. You wanted to remember, to relieve the ache in your heart, to release the guilt that was gnawing at your stomach no matter what anyone else said to you, trying so hard to assure you. If you could remember one thing. Just one thing.

Anything.

If you could just remember his-.

"Mouse."

The voice and the word slammed into your body like a second bomb. You couldn't stop the pained sound that slipped from your lips and bent your body. You caught yourself on the railing and nearly collapsed trying to turn around fast enough.

You could already hear heavy steps turning away and your arms reached out for him, even before you could make your legs move.

"Wait!" You force the word out and he stops, turning after a second. Turning, just in time for you to grab the deep red coat around his shoulders. "Wait, dammit." You insist, holding tight onto the coat, shivering between pain and fear, sorrow and loss.

"Stop... avoiding me." You demand, tears stinging your eyes as you look up at him. The golden orbs are sunk deep and are dull, heavy circles around his eyes. He almost looks gaunt, and the moonlight against skin that is desperately pale from being locked in his workshop for at least week, makes your stomach knot. "Please."

"I'm sorry." He says, in a voice more sand than gravel. Worn down and quieter.

You shake your head, holding onto his shirt. You couldn't stop him if he decided to walk away, but you were going to just drag behind him if he tried to leave at this point.

"Then... be sorry by my side." You grumble. "Idiot." You feel him flinch under your fingers.

"Eh!?" He snaps.

"Idiot!" You repeat, looking up at him.

You can see anger bubbling up into his expression. "Stop calling me that!" He barks.

"I'm calling you an idiot cause you're an idiot!" You bark back, yanking on his shirt so harshly you actually yank him forward. Anger is replaced by surprise and his metal hand clamps down on the railing stopping him short of falling into you.

"I'm not a-." His words break in his mouth, tears bubbling down your cheeks.

"Idiot." You say quietly, shaking his shirt as he moves enough to be kneeling in front of you. "I miss you. I miss you even though I can't remember you," you sob shaking the now immovable man in front of you. "If it hurts me this much, how much worse was it for you?"

One warm, calloused, gentle hand rests against your back, pulling you carefully into a hug.

"Idiot." You sob in relief.